


Let Nothing You Dismay

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Birthday Sherlock, John Watson is a Saint, John has no idea what to get Sherlock for Christmas, John is a widower, Johnlock Christmas fic, M/M, Redeemable coupons seemed like a good idea, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's Birthday, Sherlock's parents home, These two idiots belong together, Why are they dismayed?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For lack of a better Christmas gift idea, John makes a booklet of redeemable coupons for Sherlock.</p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><a href="https://postimages.org/"></a><br/>      <img/><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinkajou (kjanddean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjanddean/gifts).



> This story was written for kinkajou as part of the Holmestice gift exchange 2015.
> 
> A special 'Thank You' to 221Btls for the beta and the endless encouragement. I seriously could not have written this story without her help and support. If you have a beta, I hope she's as talented as she is.

~~~***~~~

 

“Take a deep breath Mr Putnam, on three I will push your thumb back into place—ready—1, 2…” John doesn’t wait until ‘3’ and firmly pushes the metacarpal bone back into its socket. His poor patient jumps in pain, but soon after John sees relief flood his features. It’s a good sign—a dislocation feels instantaneously better once things are back in their proper place. 

“Better?” John asks.

“Yes,” replies Mr Putnam, sounding a bit bewildered.

“Good. Listen, I’m going to send you downstairs for an X-ray. We need an image to confirm that the bone is not fractured and we need to check that I didn’t damage the socket when I snapped the bone back in.”

Mr Putnam looks at his hand wearily, stands, and says, “Thank you… I think.”

John smiles. “Don’t forget to check back in with me.”

Once Mr Putnam leaves, John pokes his head in the waiting room to call his next patient.  
The place is packed with people (it’s not a big surprise, really, they’re one of the few surgeries that are open on a Saturday). John has no idea how he’ll get through this crowd before the place closes at noon. 

It seems to John the last few weeks leading up to Christmas fill up health care facilities like nothing else. John has no bloody clue why. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the amount of daylight is getting shorter and that people are either stressed out, melancholic, or sick (or all three at the same time if the majority of the patients he’s seen so far is any indication—except Robert Putnam and his dislocated thumb, of course).

John sighs and looks out the waiting room window at the pale grey skies. Truth be told, _he_ might be feeling a little off-kilter himself. 

Even though it’s not his first Christmas as a widower, John still feels a bit blue around the holidays. He sometimes catches himself wondering what life would’ve been like at this time of the year if he’d been part of a typical family—with wife, kid, pets and whatnot. 

But he’s not complaining. There are folks out there who are in way worst situation than him (Just yesterday he’d sent Jeremy Jackson—a former rugby teammate—to get tested for ALS… just awful to think that’s what he might have.)

So yeah, he just has to be thankful for what he has: his health, his job, and his own, small version of a family tucked away in Baker Street. 

Grant you, it’s not a typical family by any means, but still, ever since he’s moved back into 221B—that’s how he thinks of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson; as his own, unorthodox, family.

Mrs Hudson is closer to being their mother than their landlady (or housekeeper!). She ensures their well-being, imparts unsolicited bits of wisdom, and nags them like any mother does. In fact, just last week, when John was in the jewelry store describing Mrs Hudson’s tastes, the sales person had assumed John was her son. Close enough he’d thought, and had not bothered correcting the clerk. 

And Sherlock? He’s like family too—like a brother or a non-romantic ‘significant other’ of sorts. Or an odd mix of both. I guess people nowadays call what they are to each other a ‘bromance’, but the label still doesn’t fit quite right. Their relationship is hard to define; but one thing is for sure, they would do anything for each other. 

Seriously, after everything they’ve been through together, John is thankful that they still share a unique bond. He swears Sherlock has hidden therapeutic qualities when it comes to John. It’s like Sherlock is his own rare drug, able to lift John out of a funk whenever John’s around the bloody wanker.

And it’s probably for that very reason John can’t think of a single thing to give Sherlock for Christmas this year. 

The gift ideas he’s come up with so far fall short in his mind when he thinks of everything Sherlock has done for him.

_Here are some new earphones to replace the ones that fell into the river that time with the computer hacker._

_Haven’t you always wanted nice disposable dishes?—sorry they don’t make disposable fridges. Haha!_

Seriously, what the hell is he supposed to get Sherlock? A box of chocolate? A pair of socks? No and no. Might as well give him nothing…

 

~~~***~~~

 

The gift problem slides to the back of his mind for the rest of the morning as John sees patient after patient. It’s not until Mr Putnam returns, X-ray results in hand, that John thinks about it again (in fact it’s his brief post-treatment conversation with Mr Putnam that sparks a gift idea).

John opens the envelope and looks at the images of Mr Putnam’s thumb. “Good news. Looks like nothing’s broken and everything is back into place. You just have to keep it immobile for a few days to make sure everything heals properly—make the joint stable again,” he says.

“Okay, great. Er, Dr. Watson, could you write me a medical note—you know, if I have to wear the sling for a week?” Mr. Putnam inquires.

“Sure. You’ll need it for work, I suppose?”

“Yes. Manual labour…. ”

John writes a quick note on a script pad and hands it over to his patient, “There you go.”

“Thanks,” he says, looking at the note like it’s a precious stone. “Could you write one for my wife too? It’d be like one of those gift coupon things—can be redeemed to get out of wrapping presents and putting up lights on every surface of the house,” he jokes.

John laughs internally. Sounds like Sherlock. He’s always trying to get out of doing chores and would probably use a doctor’s note as some sort of voucher.

Christ, maybe that’s what he should get him for Christmas!? A bunch of those coupon things to excuse him from having to do stuff! 

Without even needing to brainstorm for more than a second, John can think of a bunch of stuff Sherlock would be elated to have John do in his place. 

Really, the more John thinks about it, the more he likes the idea of the redeemable coupons. He could make them on the computer here at work. (There’s probably a software program for that type of thing, no?) And then he could print them and make them look nice and official looking. 

And, as an added bonus, when Sherlock has used up all his coupons, John will be able to say ‘no’ to some of Sherlock’s more capricious demands. Sorry Sherlock, I see you’ve run out of coupons, you’ll just have to go fetch your own damn pen yourself.

John smiles, feeling a small burst of creative energy. He even feels like starting to work on them now, but, unfortunately, he still has ten thousand patients to see. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

Once John’s done with the surgery for the day, his bright idea for Sherlock’s Christmas gift has dramatically dimmed. Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted or maybe his cold is getting worse, but his outlook on the entire thing has changed. Now the coupons seem stupid, childish at best. Isn’t that the kind of thing children give to their mums on mother’s day? 

But the thing is, John _can_ picture Sherlock using a coupon with child-like glee. 

In fact, he can easily imagine a potential scenario in his mind.

_‘Sherlock, when were you planning to discard those caterpillar nests on the counter?’_

_“Oh, you do it, John. I’m going to redeem one of my free clean-up coupons. I know how much you like those squirmy crawlers’_

John can picture how pleased Sherlock would be with himself. Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating, but still, that little scene wouldn’t be too, too, far from the truth. 

John shrugs. Well, might as well start working on the redeemable coupons anyway. Perhaps he’ll get a better idea in the next two weeks and still give him the coupons as a joke—a stocking stuffer kind of thing.

He looks up a quick template on Google and copies it in a Word document just to get an idea of what it might look like:

 

_****_

**Gift Coupon for Sherlock**

__  
****  


**Redeemable For:**

****

**__________________________________**

__  
****  


**From: John**

__  
****  


**Must be used by:____________________**

_Okay, good enough._ Next he types a quick list of all the things that could be filled into the __  
**‘redeemable for’**  
blank.

 _1\. A clean up of laboratory apparatus_  
_2\. Payment of one cab fare_  
_3\. Use of my laptop_  
_4\. A Write-up of a police report_  
_5\. One Vaccuuming of lampshade (yeah, that one’s odd, but Sherlock will love it)._  
_6\. One Ironing of bed sheets (He can be such a princess sometimes)._  
_7\. Listening to bee facts for 10 minutes_ (No idea when that started, but it’s a thing now).  
_8\. One polishing of violin_ (Yeah, he’s done that one before when Sherlock was sick.)  
_9\. One purchasing of polish_ (Well, might as well put it in there)  
_10\. One visit to the Poisonous Gardens_  
_11\. One week of being in charge of telly remote—except during world cup._  
_12\. One free organizing of John’s socks_ (Why does he do that, seriously?)  
_13\. By passing one apology to John_  
_14\. One free apology to Lestrade on your behalf_  
_15\. One free clean up of the bathtub_  
_16\. One free access to John’s gun (only to take it apart and rebuild it)._  
_17\. One update email to your mother on your behalf_  
_18\. One free repair of the doorbell_  
_19\. One cancelling of a date with girlfriend (can only be used once, Sherlock)_  
_20\. One visit to Mycroft in your place_

John re-reads the list. It’s actually a good list, but again his enthusiasm has died down.  
It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough. (And frankly a lot of these things John does for Sherlock already). 

John stands and looks out the window into the busy street and watches Christmas shoppers walking in a great rush with a multitude of bags on each side of their body. John really doesn’t feel like going out there. He spent last evening wandering aimlessly in the stores, too bloody hot in his winter coat, dismissing gift after gift for Sherlock until it was time to go home. He doesn’t really care to repeat the experience today.

John sits and stares at his list again on the computer. It’s better than anything he’s contemplated for Sherlock so far. He’s sure Sherlock would have things here that John hasn’t even imagined.

Maybe a ‘free pass’ is the solution—a coupon redeemable for _anything_. Sherlock could fill in his own crazy thing in there. 

_Yeah, that could work…_

He’ll only put three in there… and over a year period, he’s sure he can handle it. 

John adds three ‘Anythings’ to the list. 

But letting Sherlock have free reign is a bit dangerous, isn’t? He imagines the headaches of having to convince Sherlock that no, he absolutely cannot bring home narcotics, or what not. _(But the coupon clearly said ANYTHING, John. Let’s go over the definition of anything, shall we?)_

He should really put some conditions on those—a loophole of sorts written in fine print—so Sherlock doesn’t stretch the meaning of ‘anything’ pass its breaking point. (i.e. John’s breaking point).

_John reserves the right to void coupon if the following conditions are not met._  
_-“Anything” must not be unreasonable._  
_-“Anything” must not be unethical._  
_-“Anything” must not endanger life. (others and ours)_

There. That basically gives John the right to say no. (Doesn’t it?) 

 

~~~***~~~

 

Two weeks later, John proudly leafs through the booklet of coupons. He’s got a nice laminated cover on it, and even perforated lines along the side so the coupon can be easily torn off. They look really good if he may say so himself.

It’s an understatement to say he’s not the most computer savvy guy out there. The formatting of the coupons was a real bitch, and John might’ve sworn more while working on this gift than he did when he was in the army. 

Sherlock will realize all the work that went into it. Besides, Sherlock has already deduced that John is doing something on the computer at work for him—but he doesn’t know what exactly (only because he asked Sherlock to leave it alone). 

It’s probably not what Sherlock expects. In fact, John’s not even sure if Sherlock is aware that something as mundane as a ‘redeemable coupon’ exists. He’ll probably think the entire thing is stupid— _What would I even need these for, John?_

Well, it’s a little too late in the game to change his mind, but maybe John should pick up a little extra something for Sherlock just in case. Maybe new earphones, after all. As far as he knows, Sherlock hasn’t replaced his set yet.

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing! :) Much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In their cozy 221B flat, John and Sherlock exchange gifts Christmas Eve.

~~~***~~~

It’s Christmas Eve and John and Sherlock have just sat down in their respective chairs in 221B after having dinner with Mrs Hudson downstairs. 

It’s the kind of evening John would like the press the pause button on—hold everything still and appreciate the deep feeling of contentment. The fireplace has a small fire going and the Christmas lights on the mantel have finally decided to work (they’d been flickering on and off for days due to a faulty bulb). Plus, the flat smells delicious, of cinnamon and apples mixed in with the tangy scent of the fresh pine branches John placed on the mantel piece and window sills. The place feels cozy, _peaceful._

Impulsively, John stands and turns off the lamp and the overhead light, immediately cocooning them in the soft warm light of the fireplace. 

“Would you care for some wine?” John asks, thinking that a nice after-dinner drink is the missing element to this warm tableau.

Sherlock nods and John goes to the kitchen and opens a bottle of Shiraz and brings it back in the living room where he proceeds to fill two wine glasses for both himself and Sherlock. 

He hands one to Sherlock. “Thank you, John,” Sherlock says, raising his glass. 

“Cheers,” John replies softly as the rim of their glasses clinks softly.

John suddenly wishes he didn’t have to spend Christmas dinner with his sister tomorrow. Sherlock had invited John to his parent’s place a while back, but John had turned him down because Harry was sober and had a new partner she wanted John to meet. 

Since they won’t see each other tomorrow, John supposes he and Sherlock are going to go ahead and exchange their presents tonight. 

It seems Sherlock has read his mind as he reaches down underneath his chair and pulls up a slim laptop with a small red bow and hands it over to John.

“Happy Christmas, John. Don’t worry, you only have to turn it on. I’ve downloaded everything you need and have all your passwords set.”

John is gobsmacked. _He bought me a bloody computer?_ It’s true that John has needed a new one for a while now, but couldn’t be bothered to go shop for an upgrade. It just seemed easier to keep going on something he was familiar with even if it’s slow and bulky. He’s a little speechless by the gift, and he knows it’s not the point but still, he feels sorta bad that there’s such a discrepancy in the monetary value of the gifts he’s giving Sherlock .

“Wow—that’s… Sherlock, that’s too much.”

“Don’t worry. I use your laptop as much as I use mine… so in a sense it’s for the both of us.”

“Well, thank you very much. That’s very kind of you, and…er, very generous and…”

“And _selfish_ , trust me,” adds Sherlock with a small, satisfied smile. 

A few moments pass while John inspects the new laptop. It’s great! He really doesn’t need to do anything. Sherlock has installed all the same programs and apps he had on his other one (and he even included the dating site he was thinking about posting his profile) 

“Yeah, it’s great, Sherlock, thanks again,” John says, standing up. “I’ve got something for you as well—nothing as grand as this…” he says, waving his hand towards the shiny new laptop.

John grabs the envelope on the mantel piece and bends down to pick up the boxed gift with the throw blanket in it. John had ditched the headset idea when he saw the blanket in the store. He thought it would be perfect for when he had to cover Sherlock whenever he fell asleep on the sofa for the night. John’s own blanket was a bit too short and somewhat itchy, but this one was soft, and long and John liked the deep burgundy colour.

Sherlock opens the box and unfolds the throw blanket and gives John a tiny smile. “For when I fall asleep on the sofa,” he says, feeling the soft fabric between his long fingers.

“Yeah, it’s sort of a selfish gift as well,” says John, pleased to see that Sherlock seems to like it. “You know, so I don’t have to cover you with mine.” 

“Thank you, John,” he says, and then sticks out a hand, palm up. “Now, let me see the envelope containing the gift that kept you late in the office at the surgery. It was rather annoying that you wouldn’t let me deduce what it was.”

“I imagine that was more painful than a trip to the dentist?”

“Than a visit to Mycroft’s Diogenes Club.” 

John hands him the envelope, feeling a little reluctant and nervous. It seems like such a fucking stupid thing to give now. What is he? A fourteen year old girl on Valentine’s Day?

Sherlock opens the envelopes and leafs through the coupons exceedingly slow and John finds he’s holding his breath. Sherlock looks up and says, “These must have been difficult for you to make.”

“Yeah. I might’ve surprised a few colleagues with some colourful language once or twice,” John replies.

Sherlock continues to read each coupon. His face his expressionless and John feels like he’s completely missed the mark.

“I know it’s not—”

“It’s perfect, John. In fact, it’s the most perfect gift I have ever received,” he says and then proceeds to tear one of the three _‘Redeemable for Anything’_ coupon. “I would like to use this one immediately,” he adds, handing the coupon over to John.

John is a little surprised to say the least. “Er, there are conditions for those, you know. You’ve read the fine print?” 

Sherlock takes a long sip of the Shiraz, his eyes completely focused on John’s. “Of course,” he says, a tiny suggestion of a dimple appearing in one cheek, giving him a mischievous look.

“Okay,” John says a little dismayed. Somehow he’d imagined Sherlock wanting to save those. “What do you want?”

“Another booklet such as this for my birthday.”

John snorts out a laugh. “Clever.” 

“Thank you.”

John is pleased and even though this might mean perpetual servitude to Sherlock’s needs, at least he knows what to get the sly bugger for his birthday in two weeks!

They sit cradling their wine, looking at each other, both pleased with their gifts.

The light of the fire plays hide and seek with Sherlock’s features, making him look both mysterious and smug. 

Again John finds himself wishing he were going to Sherlock’s parents place tomorrow. Last time he was there, well, he’d been more than a little distracted. Him and Mary hadn’t been on talking terms. And the baby…

No—he’s not even going to go there right now. And as per usual, it seems his great genius of a best friend has read his mind. 

“It’s in the past now John.”

John sighs and then gives him a small smile, changing the subject completely. “How is the case going? Were you able to gather evidence that the stalker was a witness and not the murderer?”

“In a sense. I’ve sent forensics to search for the stalker’s football boots and his rain jacket. Once these two items are in my possession, I’ll be able to prove it.”

John is actually surprised that Sherlock still joined him and Mrs Hudson tonight knowing that he could be scavenging around town looking for the final piece of the puzzle.

They talk quietly about the details of the case—how Sherlock worked it all out—and after a while, Sherlock stands to play a Christmas medley on the violin. John listens, feeling relaxed and happy, the fire seemingly playing music along with Sherlock, sending warm sizzling notes in the air.

John realizes he’s almost drowsed off when Sherlock asks if he should refill their glass. “No, I’m good. If I have anymore I’ll fall asleep right here.”

Sherlock reaches for the booklet of coupons again on the side table. “Well, before you fall asleep, I would like to redeem a coupon once more.” He immediately goes to the back of the booklet and tears off _another_ ‘Anything’ coupon. 

John blinks. Why the hell had he imagined Sherlock Holmes pacing himself with these—taking his time to find the perfect ‘task’ for John? _Good Lord._

But he shouldn’t be surprised—Sherlock’s head hosts the human version of the most efficient high speed internet on earth. He probably conjured up hundreds of different scenarios within the first two seconds of receiving the coupons (And now it’s funny to think John bothered to put an expiry date on them).

“Okaayyy,” says John, holding his palms up in mock surrender. “What would you like to redeem this for?”

Sherlock looks up, his gaze fixed somewhere above John’s head, and starts a long monologue about _Homo sapiens_ epidermis and the evolutionary benefits of social touch in higher mammals. He’s still hanging on to the coupon as if it’s a pointer used in lecture halls. 

It’s all very interesting, but John has _no_ idea what Sherlock is getting at in the context of the bloody coupon. “Sherlock…” John warns.

Sherlock darts a quick look at John and continues, “Evolution has shown that certain grooming behaviours stimulates the release of endorphins—opiates produced in the brain that triggers feelings of relaxation by lowering the heart rate. In fact, an analysis of three randomized control trials—the gold standard in biomedical research—revealed that evolution-- ”

He grabs the coupon from Sherlock’s hand and asks, “Er, what exactly are you asking for?”

Sherlock gives him one of his ‘I-don’t-understand-why-you-don’t-understand’ frown. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“Yeesss,” replies John, “But I need you to be a _bit_ more specific than _evolution_ …”

Sherlock smiles. “You deduce very little.”

“C’mon, Sherlock. Out with it, then.”

Sherlock sighs deeply, as if John’s need for clarification is a great imposition on his time. “I want my back scratched,” he says quickly.

“Back scratched?”

“Yes, for twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes!”

“Lovely. I don’t need to buy myself a parakeet.”

John shakes his head at the mental image of such a bird living with them. “Good thing. It would starve within a week,” he says, laughing a bit.

“Splendid humour, John. ”

“Thanks, so why a back scratch?”

“Haven’t you been listening? The opiates?” Sherlock’s cheeks have coloured slightly and his hands are fidgety. 

But still, it’s a little odd. Most people would ask for a massage, no? And twenty minutes is a long time to stand there scratching someone’s back. 

But honest to God, that’s exactly the kind of weird thing he’d expected from Sherlock, isn’t? John shakes his head, oddly pleased that despite all this time, ‘always the unexpected’ still seems to be Sherlock’s mantra.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, “when I was little, I always liked having my back scratched—especially when I was sick. My parents would take turns… Mycroft too sometimes. Once in a while, I crave it. But I fear I’m a little too old to ask my parents and it’s difficult to accomplish a satisfactory back scratch by yourself.” 

John stares at Sherlock. It’s so rare to hear his best friend sharing anything about his childhood. He pictures a young Sherlock, with wild curly hair, and fast skinny legs, fiercely running away from a hug, but being completely docile when his parents would scratch his back.

“Stop looking at me like that, John. It’s not that weird. The science behind it is solid. Have you ever wondered why animals like to have their ears and belly scratched?”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just, I don’t know. I’m always surprised when to talk about your parents and being young.”

“Really, John, did you think I sprang half grown from the earth?”

“A bit, yeah,” says John, teasingly.

“So?” asks Sherlock. “Are you going to validate this coupon or not?”

John shrugs, why not? “Well, it’s not unreasonable, unethical, and it won’t endanger our lives—so yeah, ok, back scratch it is,” says John, standing. “Alright, come over here.”

“It’ll be easier if I lie down on my bed, don’t you think?”

“Right,” says John, slightly dismayed.

_Okay, so we’re not doing this standing here in the living room_. 

If Sherlock wasn’t… well, _Sherlock,_ John would probably be uncomfortable with the back scratch in the bedroom. If John pictures himself for a second in a similar scenario with someone else—let’s say Molly—then whole thing has a quirky, _intimate_ feel to it. 

But with Sherlock, it’s _just_ quirky… probably because the wanker doesn’t do this type of stuff. He literally just wants his back scratched to release feel good chemicals. Nothing more, nothing less. 

John follows Sherlock into his bedroom and watches as his best friend folds back the white duvet on his bed with military precision. He then turns away from John and proceeds to remove his jacket, unbutton his shirt, and take it off. He casts a quick look back at John and then unbuckles his belt and starts to remove his trousers.

“Er, Sherlock, I’m only scratching your back— _nothing else_ … no matter what other mammals have done throughout evolution,” John jokes. 

The eye roll Sherlock gives him is so pronounced that John worries Sherlock might’ve strained his ocular ligaments. “I don’t want to wrinkle my trousers,” Sherlock explains, exasperated.

Sherlock gets into his bed, flat on his stomach, and cradles his pillow tightly.

Part of John can’t help but stare at the multiple scars on his best friend’s back. It’s not the first time he’s seen them, and even though they’ve healed well and receded, they still make something clench in John’s stomach.

The other part of John can’t help observing the uniquely beautiful human specimen his best friend really is. Sherlock is well proportioned with muscular shoulders, delicate looking collarbones, a strong back, a narrow waist, followed by a rounded buttock. He’s all angles and curves that complement each other perfectly. Seriously, had Michelangelo laid eyes on Sherlock, he’d have ditched the model for ‘David’ in a second and used his best friend instead.

John shakes his head. Naw—Sherlock wouldn’t have the patience to stand there doing nothing while the artist worked.

“What are you waiting for, John? The expiry date on the coupon?” says Sherlock, impatiently.

Point proven. No patience whatsoever.

John shakes his head, sits on the edge of the bed, and doesn’t let himself think about it too much. Sherlock is strange. This is strange, but it’s all fine. He doesn’t mind doing this if it’s going to relax Sherlock and make him feel good just like when he was little. 

He starts to scratch Sherlock’s back, moving his hand up and down until John notices a bunch of red criss-crossed marks appear all over the place on Sherlock’s pale skin. 

John pauses. Maybe he’s doing it too hard. 

“It’s perfect,” Sherlock says, correctly interpreting his slight hesitation.

John continues, his fingernails scratching Sherlock’s shoulder blades and around each vertebrae, moving back down over the long expense of Sherlock’s back, and back up to the middle. He continues, up to the shoulders, and then back and forth down the spine until he makes his way back to the shoulder blades and almost hypnotically traces figure eight patterns between them. 

He looks at his watch and notes that only five minutes have gone by. He shifts a bit, getting uncomfortable due to his slightly twisted position, sitting on the edge of the bed like that, and having to use his right hand.

After ten minutes, he pauses, shaking his wrist. He almost feels like asking his best friend if he’s had enough. His hand hurts and for some reason, his own damn back is itchy now (especially the scar tissue around his exit wound on his shoulder). 

But he can’t take it back the coupon. It’s a gift. Plus the bloody wanker got him a computer!

“You’re getting sore,” says Sherlock, lifting his head from the pillow to glance at John. “Lie down next to me on the bed, here. You’ll be more comfortable.”

John doesn’t need to picture himself with Molly this time. He knows this is a bit much.

Sherlock sighs. “It’s simple geometry, John. The angles will work better plus you’ll be able to use your left hand for the remaining ten minutes.”

Again, it sort of makes sense—in a Sherlockian kind of way—when presented that way. It doesn’t mean anything, except getting this over with without getting a kink in his wrist.

“Alright,” John says, standing up to remove his shoes.

Sherlock nestles his head back in the pillow and John walks around the other side of the bed. He climbs in next to Sherlock (but lies on top of the duvet, not underneath). He shifts a bit to lie more on his side, and resumes scratching Sherlock’s back.

In this position, they are at the same height and John can smell Sherlock’s hair (it sort of has a pleasant nutty smell to it). Maybe he’ll try his shampoo next time he showers.

Sherlock is relaxed, his limbs heavy and loose on the mattress, his breathing slow and content. It’s almost as if he’s purring, John thinks. And somehow this makes John feel oddly pleased.

He knows what it would look like if someone were to somehow take a peek through the window—he’s not that oblivious to the strangeness of the situation (Christ! He’d thought the exact same thing during his waltzing lessons with Sherlock!), but this is them. More apt, this is Sherlock. He doesn’t abide to the same social norms others do (obviously, or else John wouldn’t be in bed with the dickhead at the moment). 

Even though John finds it weird, he really loves pleasing Sherlock—loves to see him relaxed and happy. He always feels a small pang of satisfaction whenever he manages to keep Sherlock well.

John continues to run his fingernails along the expense of Sherlock’s back, his nails scraping the surface of the skin softly. Without consciously making a decision to do so, John starts paying close attention to the scar tissue on Sherlock’s back, gently tracing the raised flesh with his thumb.

“I would’ve gone with you, Sherlock”, he says.

“Shhh,” says Sherlock. He never seems to be willing to give John the exact details of what happened during his two years away.

John continues scratching Sherlock’s pale skin. Time seems to be going extremely slow, John thinks as only three minutes have gone by since he last checked. 

Well, John’s not sure about the exact angles and the geometry of his new position, but it’s certainly more comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. He can feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body seep through the duvet and he finds himself almost drifting off, his hand taking frequent breaks and just resting on Sherlock’s back.

It almost seems like Sherlock is asleep and John should just let him be for the night. It’s certainly late enough for him to go to bed, too. _In a minute…_

But John falls asleep, his arm draped across his best friend’s back, his last thought being, _Sherlock has a comfortable bed._

 

~~~***~~~ 

 

John wakes up with a start. He’s confused as to where he is for half a second and then he remembers the back scratch and how he ended up asleep in his best friend’s bed.

Sherlock is gone and somehow John is covered with the throw blanket he gave Sherlock earlier.

John turns on the light and sees a handwritten note on the pillow next to him.

**_Lestrade texted. They found the raincoat and football boots. Wanted to examine it in person._ **

_**Have a safe trip. SH** _

John looks at the time and contemplates joining Sherlock at the lab. But it’s too late now and he has an early train ride tomorrow to get to Harry’s. He’d better head on upstairs to his own bed.

He writes Sherlock a quick note.

**_Happy Christmas, Sherlock_**  
**_See you in few days._**  
**_Thanks again for the laptop._**

He wants to make a joke about waking up in Sherlock’s bed, but he can’t think of anything clever enough, so he just signs his name; **_John_** and then makes his way to his own bedroom upstairs. 

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you're enjoying the story so far… please let me know!
> 
> *Hugs*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://postimages.org/)

~~~***~~~

 

Almost two weeks later, John and Sherlock are standing in front of the Holmes’s family home and instead of knocking or ringing the doorbell, Sherlock pulls out a set of keys and opens the door. 

John follows Sherlock inside and stands on the welcoming mat with his overnight bag in hand. “Are your parents not home?” John asks, puzzled.

“No,” says Sherlock, removing his scarf.

“It’s just us two?”

“Concerns?” inquires Sherlock, unbuttoning his coat.

John sighs, exasperated. “But you invited me to your birthday dinner at your parent’s place!”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, as if John is missing the obvious. “We’re at my parent’s place. It is my birthday. And we’re going to have dinner.”

“Jesus, Sherlock! That’s not how you made it sound,” explains John, slightly irked. “You implied that your parents were disappointed I didn’t come at Christmas because my presence makes you and your brother ‘behave’. And then you led me to believe that they were organizing a dinner party for you and that I should come because I missed Christmas. I’m here because I think it’s great that you’re spending more time with your folks!” 

“It’s not my fault if you made an erroneous conclusion from the facts I put forth,” Sherlock says, distracted by the mail piled up on the small table in the entrance. 

“Why didn’t we just stay home?” asks John, exasperated. “You don’t even like coming here.”

Sherlock sighs. “My parents asked me to check on the place, and you’ve complained on two different occasion since you’ve been back from Harriet’s that you need a weekend away to do absolutely nothing. Plus, I had no desire for you to take me out to the pub with Lestrade on my birthday… I merely combined these three variables, and here we are.”

“What about your birthday dinner, you twit? I’m not cooking for you,” John says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And I appreciate that John, truly.”

John gives him a look. “Funny.”

“Don’t worry, my parents—mostly dad, mum hates to cook—prepared my favourite—Beef Stroganoff—and we just have to heat it up,” Sherlock says, opening an envelope John is pretty sure is not addressed to him. “Make yourself at home,” Sherlock says before stepping into a room to the left (the office if John remembers correctly.) 

John grabs his wrist just as the wanker tries to close the door. “Sherlock, get back here,” John orders, pulling Sherlock back into the hallway again.

Sherlock frees his hand from John’s grasp. “You’re angry,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Yes, you tricked me into coming.”

“I did not. You made a faulty assump—”

“Cut the crap, Sherlock. Why not just ask me?”

Sherlock blinks a few times, seemingly lost. John doesn’t buy it. “Sherlock,” he warns, “Truth. Now. Or I will get back in the car and go back home.” 

Sherlock sighs and looks down at the floor. “I was afraid you’d say no,” he says and then looks up at John, his eyes honest and his face transparent and John knows that whatever comes out of Sherlock’s mouth next is (probably) the truth. “I abhor being in this house alone.”

They stare at each other, this weird admission hovering between them. 

John knows with a quiet certainty that there is something strange about Sherlock’s relationship to the family home. Something that makes it difficult for Sherlock to visit his parents. John doesn’t know what it is, but if he had to guess, he’d say it’s all related to the sporadic episodes of OCD and Sherlock’s strange habit of talking to himself. 

This is not the sort of stuff they ever talk about. Sherlock rarely lets anyone in. He’s built solid walls around himself like he’s a professional contractor and John has had no desire to ever force it down. And now Sherlock’s shown John a small fissure to get in. 

But the thing is, will the whole damn thing crumble on them if John digs in too quickly?

John makes a decision. “Tell you what. You march your sneaky little arse in the living room and you build me a fire in that great huge fireplace. It’s bloody cold in here. And when you’re ready, you tell me about the house, alright?”

 

~~~***~~~

 

John has been reading all afternoon, sitting on the sofa, right in front of that great big fireplace where he threw Mary’s A.G.R.A stick in three years ago. But he doesn’t let himself think about that. If anything, John Watson is good at compartmentalizing, and right now, he’s going to focus on the coziness of the room, the snow falling outside, and the fact that Sherlock has been catering to his needs all afternoon like it’s John’s birthday instead of Sherlock’s.

Sherlock made John a fire, brought his travel bag up to the guest room, made him a hot chocolate, and is now cooking his own birthday dinner. John would help, but honestly, Sherlock seems to be enjoying himself playing host. 

After a while, John stands to look out the window. It seems the snow has picked up in intensity and instead of falling to the ground in fat fluffy snowflakes like it was earlier, it’s now attacking the ground diagonally as if determined to go through the earth instead of just covering it.

When John turns around again, Sherlock is standing in the doorway staring at him. He’s wearing a white shirt with dark charcoal trousers and he’s holding a tray with a pot of tea, tea cups, and saucers. He looks like a waiter politely waiting for John to take notice of him.

“You don’t have to play valet for me anymore. Looks like I’m not going anywhere…” John says, lightly, pointing to the window.

“The snow won’t last, you can still leave if you want,” Sherlock says, putting the tray on the coffee table carefully. “Tea?” asks Sherlock as he pours a cup for John.

“Thanks,” says John, amused that Sherlock keeps bringing him hot drinks as if their roles are suddenly reversed now that they’ve changed venue.

But Sherlock doesn’t seem to be amused. In fact he looks downright ill. His face is pale, his posture stiff and formal, and his hands are clasped tightly in front of him. 

“Are you alright?” John asks, half concerned, half-suspicious.

Sherlock swallows. “I’m fine.”

“Do you need help with dinner?” John asks, sensing something’s off with his flatmate and trying to figure out what it is. Maybe Sherlock ruined the dish his parents made for him and now they need to come up with something else?

“No—dinner’s fine. It’ll be ready in an hour or so.”

“What is it, then?”

From the right pocket of his trousers, Sherlock pulls out a folded piece of paper and moves in front of John. Dusk has settled outside and has darkened the room, but the light of the fire in the huge fireplace casts a soft glow on them and John can now identify the paper Sherlock’s holding as one of the gift coupons he made Sherlock. 

“John, I would like to use my last ‘anything coupon’ from the booklet you gave me for Christmas. And I do realize that it is a highly unusual request, but I would like you to recognize both the logic of the request and also its practicality.”

John suddenly feels like he should be drinking a double whisky instead of tea. “What would you like?” he inquires over the warning bells ringing loudly in his ears.

“I would like to redeem this coupon for sexual intercourse,” Sherlock says quickly.

For a brief second John assumes that he has misheard. But from the expression on Sherlock’s face—looking slightly lost and defensive—John can tell the stupid wanker is indeed asking for sex. Just the same, he asks him to repeat it.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock says. “And you want me to repeat it because you don’t think I’m serious. But I am. I want to redeem this coupon for sex… with you. The sooner the better,” he adds, as if it’s something that’ll be less painful done quickly—like removing a plaster or something.

“What _exactly_ are you up to now?” 

Sherlock frowns. “I’m not up to anything. I am merely redeeming my coupon, John,” he says calmly. Too calmly. 

John looks up to the ceiling asking for patience. Why, oh why, did he think giving Sherlock coupons was a good idea again? At best, this is a joke, at worst, for a case.

John gives Sherlock his composed smile. “Yeah, right, okay. Is this a joke? Is this for a case? Proposing sex just like you proposed marriage to Jeanine?”

Sherlock shakes his head ‘no’.

“Is it some kind of social experiment? I’m not playing along, Sherlock.”

“I’m serious, John. I would like to have sexual intercourse with you and I have a coupon here that says I can.”

Sherlock seems serious and John’s just going a stop to this crap now before they go around in circles endlessly. “Sherlock— _No_. Stop this nonsense right now.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“This is not the kind of thing that can be redeemed with a coupon.”

“Why not?”

“You know why. So glad I put the fine print on the back of those… now shall we go set the table?”

“But it meets all the conditions. It’s not unreasonable—in fact it’s a perfectly natural occurrence in all species.”

John remains composed, waiting for Sherlock to either burst out laughing or to explain how this is related to a case. Either way, this is not going to get too far. 

Sherlock continues. “It’s not unethical—unless you’ve suddenly become a Christian extremist, and last but not least, it won’t endanger our life—at least not as much as some of the other stuff we’ve done together.”

“Sherlock, why are you doing this? I know you don’t really want to have sex with me.”

“I do!” 

John rolls his eyes. “Well, I don’t.”

“I have enough evidence proving otherwise.”

“Oh, really? I’d love to see the evidence.”

“Excellent. As it turns out, I’ve been collecting data…”

“Of course, you have.”

“Ours is a unique friendship, would you say?”

John knows what Sherlock is doing now, distracting him, trying to trap him with words, but John knows it won’t work. “Yes, we have a unique bond,” he answers honestly.

“Well, I wondered if it was possible that you might want to be with me in a different context, so I had to formulate a hypothesis and then design a study to gather data. I knew it was a sensitive subject and that it had the potential to affect the nature of our friendship. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t reasonably certain that my results were conclusive.”

Sherlock stops and then pulls out a small notebook from his back pocket. He flips through a few pages, and then finds what he’s looking for.

“I have a lot of data which can be considered statistically significant, but I’d like to focus on the latest event—the one that has given me the final proof.” 

Sherlock pauses and takes the time to look at John. He looks so _nervous_ and so earnest at the same time. It brings to mind the time he’d apologized to John in 221B after he’d been tossed in the fire.

Sherlock swallows. “John, my hypothesis was that you would be amenable to have sex with me. The measurement tool I used was the backscratch… I won’t cite all the variables I tested because I could not even find a control. Apparently, ‘friends’ do not get into bed together, do not touch each other the way you did, and do not fall asleep with their arms around each other unless there’s a possibility—”

It feels like John’s stomach has turned to lead. He smiles his angry smile and shakes his head, “So, you admit to tricking me. You asked for a back scratch knowing full that it sounded quirky enough for me to think it would be something you’d want. And now you’re using this as proof that I secretly want to sleep with you?”

“No—it’s not like that, John.”

“Did you bloody write an actual study on this?”

“Yes. It’s the best way to organize my thoughts when it’s something I have no experience with. I follow the scientific method.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not submitting it for publication or anything like that,” Sherlock jokes weakly.

John is irked, and that’s putting it mildly; it’s like he’s got an angry bull within, smashing its horns against its enclosure, but he manages to hold it inside. “Sherlock, you’re ruining a perfectly nice afternoon. I’m really not in the mood to play your stupid game,” he says evenly.

“It’s not a game.”

“Well, whatever this is, I’m not falling for it.”

John is losing the battle with his metaphorical bull. It seems the beast has smashed through the fence and is now looking for the insensitive prick he calls his best friend.

For whatever reason Sherlock is doing this, John feels Sherlock’s crossed the line. John can’t point exactly what that line is but he knows it’s got something to do with Sherlock using John’s gift to ridicule the nature of their friendship. And what angers John the most is that Sherlock dares call what he’s doing ‘science’ when he bloody well knows neither one of them want to have sex with each other. 

“John, you fail to see the logic,” says Sherlock. 

John barks out a laugh. “That’s because there’s no logic to this. This has nothing to do with the science and probabilities and everything to do with being a decent human being—which you clearly don’t get, do you? I bloody well know it was a bit out there, but I did it because it was you, and you don’t count as a normal friend, so your results are invalid!” 

John knows he should take a step back before he says anything more. But it seems that Sherlock has just hit a very sore spot—one that somehow had been festering unattended—and now the loose angry bull within is going after Sherlock. “This is really classy. How about you do a study on how to be considerate and respectful of people who are bravely willing to be your friend?” he says, regretting the words as soon as they are out of his damn mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he swallows hard. He looks stricken. _Hurt._

_Nice going, John._

But within seconds Sherlock has composed himself again and his face becomes devoid of emotions. “I thought this was the most efficient method to lead us to the resolution we both want. I was clearly mistaken. But please know it was my inexperience and not any lack of respect for you that led to this unfortunate request.”

Sherlock turns and stiffly climbs up the stairs, the damn coupon still clasped tightly in his hands.

John feels terrible. Terrible enough that he feels like vomiting. He sits back down on the sofa and drops his head in his hands. _What the hell just happened?_

Regret lodges itself in his sternum, heavy and sharp, like an anvil. Jesus Christ, he didn’t mean to hurt Sherlock like that. He should’ve been more ‘emotionally’ mature about this. He should’ve been able to take a step back and ask _Sherlock_ why _he_ wanted to have sex instead of getting all defensive about it. 

John shakes his head; he’d been warned by his therapist that this might happen at one point. _John, if you never tell Sherlock how you felt when he tricked you into declaring your forgiveness on that subway car, it’ll come back to haunt you. You’ll find it difficult to trust him._

The thing is, John _does_ trust Sherlock! He trusts him with his life. And God dammit if Sherlock hasn’t saved it a few times too. But it’s the other stuff—the emotional things—he has difficulty trusting Sherlock with. It’s as if he expects to find Sherlock breaking down in chuckles if John shares anything remotely sentimental. _You should see your face._

John runs a hand through his hair. Well he’s not going to sit here over analyzing things at this point. They obviously need to talk to each other and, unfortunately, a sex proposal is just too much to be swept under the rug.

There’s only one thing to do—go find the great idiot upstairs and fix things. 

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~***~~~
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read and (hopefully) comment. Your support is priceless!
> 
> *Happy Holidays!*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://postimages.org/)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special 'thank you' to the wonderful 221Btls for the beta and hand holding. I don't think I could've written this story without her help, kindness, and gentle guidance. I was very lucky to have her on board. Thanks again for everything, 221Btls!
> 
> Please know that if there are any remaining mistakes, they are mine. I tend to add stuff at the last minute (and English is not my first language!)
> 
> And last but not least, this is not Brit-picked. :( I will gladly make any changes if something bothers you.  
> 

~~~***~~~

John stands in front of what he assumes to be Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, takes a deep breath, and knocks.

“In here,” says a voice—Sherlock’s, obviously—coming from somewhere behind him. John turns around and realizes he’s knocking at the wrong bloody door. Go figure. 

He pokes his head in the room across the landing, and sure enough, Sherlock is in there, now dressed in his pajamas and wearing a navy blue bathrobe. He’s sitting in a chair that looks exactly like John’s in 221B but with a less faded fabric. John figures the chairs must’ve been a matched pair at some point until Mrs Holmes changed the décor or Sherlock took one with him when he moved out.

John steps into the room. It smells of old books and fresh linen and looks nothing like he’d expected a younger Sherlock to live in. Sherlock’s bed is different than the one he has in the flat. It’s made of a lighter wood and the headboard is actually a bookshelf. There is a white duvet on it and a red and blue quilt folded at the footboard. The walls are bare and painted light blue except for a faded rectangle where Sherlock’s poster of the Periodic Chart of the Elements must’ve hung. There is a tall, narrow bookshelf, filled with what appears to be yellowed scientific journals organized in boxes. The closet door is opened and the clothes Sherlock was wearing earlier are now hanging neatly on a hanger. 

Sherlock is not paying attention to him. He seems to be reading an old, bulky, university textbook entitled _Developmental Cognitive Neuroscience._

John sighs. He’s not quite sure how to go about this. It’s a delicate situation and it seems they both owe each other an apology.

“You can sit on my bed,” says Sherlock, his face glued to the book.

John quietly moves to the bed and sits down. Sherlock finally looks up and stares at John with big, wide eyes, face completely neutral. This feels like any old time John’s interrupted Sherlock’s reading. Except, it’s not any old time, is it? Now there’s a weird ‘sex’ proposal between them. There’s also a very hurtful comment, too. One that John would love to take back.

Sherlock suddenly snaps the book shut and drops it on the carpeted floor in a loud thud. He then sits straighter, and John thinks he looks so much younger than he actually is, sitting like this with his hands folded on his lap and his feet placed squarely on the floor. It makes John regret his words even more; it’s like Sherlock’s body posture emphasizes his innocence, his total lack of experience in matters of the heart. _He has no clue what he’s doing…_

“Listen, Sherlock,” he starts. “I think—”

“Not apologizing,” interrupts Sherlock in an odd, childish voice. He blinks and then starts over. “I am not apologizing, John, if that’s what you came up here for.”

John closes his eyes briefly, and then inhales. “I’m here to fix things between us. I don’t know about you, but I feel like shit.”

Sherlock’s lips tremble slightly and then his face resets to neutral, but John notices that he is clasping the hands on his lap tighter. “I feel just fine,” Sherlock says.

The obvious lie makes John feel even worse. “Well, just in case I hurt your feelings earlier, I’d like to apologize.”

“As I said, John. I’m perfectly fine. I do not expect an apology and don’t expect one from me. We are two grown men who have expressed what was on their minds. We could not come to an amiable solution, therefore I believe we should move on and put it behind us. Should we go eat?”

Sherlock delivers this little monologue as if he just memorized it from the psychology book he dropped on the floor. John doesn’t buy it. Sherlock hates when John is upset with him (not that it ever stops Sherlock from pushing John’s buttons…) In fact, they are both miserable when they fight and they are usually pretty quick to talk things through and make it right again (faked death notwithstanding).

But now—in the face of Sherlock’s presumed indifference—John feels like he’s talking to a stranger. He feels like grabbing Sherlock by the feet and shaking him upside down, until the real Sherlock comes tumbling down on the floor. “Sherlock, you know me and you know I didn’t mean any of the stuff I said. I’m sorry I said it; I reacted poorly to your…er.. request.”

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change and he keeps staring straight ahead. John sighs, and tries one more time to get Sherlock to talk, or to at least accept his apology. 

Sometimes, not always, Sherlock reacts better if John is somewhat stern with him. “Stop being a stubborn idiot and say ‘of course, you damn well forgive me’,” instructs John.

This seems to snap Sherlock out of his trance, and a near smile appears on his lips. “This is tedious,” he announces, “but I ‘damn’ well forgive you,” he says repeating John’s words verbatim. 

John sees that they are finally close to a bloody resolution, and now Sherlock needs to do his part. “Now apologize to me and say you’re sorry for using the gift coupons to collect data on me.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “But I’m not sorry, John,” he says, earnestly. “I wanted that back scratch and it’s not my fault you provided me with further evidence.”

John sighs. It’s obvious he needs to approach this from another angle or else this conversation will go around and around in circles. “Alright, Sherlock. Can you explain to me clearly _why_ you felt the need to gather this kind of—er— _data_ on me, and why you think the solution to your findings is sex?” 

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly as if he’s organizing his thoughts to deliver a clear, composed answer. “You like your life with me because I provide the element of danger and adventure that you seek. I, too, enjoy your company, but soon you will be ready to start dating again because, frankly, you enjoy sex far too much to go without it. Statistically speaking, the odds of you finding a girlfriend who will tolerate me are very slim and consequently, you will let your desire for a relationship trump your desire for adventure and you will end up moving out of 221B. Since I’m trying to avoid that very possibility, I’ve surmised that if you and I had enter in a sexual relationship, we could then bypass the part where you move out, and consequently we would both get what we want.” 

Sherlock pauses as if he expects John to challenge his speech, but John stays silent, waiting for Sherlock to explain the rest. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have some insights about the risks of proposing a change of parameters in a friendship, but I deemed that the reward would be worth the risk of offending you.”

John runs a hand through his hair and fights back the urge to laugh in disbelief. Could Sherlock sound more clinical? Plus it seems the bloody tosser forgot a very important variable in this little plan of his… “But Sherlock, you don’t do sex and relationships. Remember, human error?”

Sherlock lifts his chin in defiance. “As I said, I’ve weighed the pros and cons and I think the risk is worth it.”

“You’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy,” John says, rolling his eyes.

“In the past you’ve never expected serenades and flowers before coitus,” replies Sherlock with a tiny smile to indicate he understood John’s sarcasm. But the fact that he actually used the word coitus just proves John’s point even more. 

John doesn’t even ask if Sherlock’s had sex before. The answer is obvious. In fact, John’s pretty sure it’s not something Sherlock would particularly like, especially the loss of control part and the shared intimacy. 

“And the fact that I’m not gay?”

Sherlock looks up to the ceiling and sighs as if he’s running out of ways to explain his point to John. _“As I said,_ ” he begins, with great emphasis on the fact that he’s repeating himself. “I have evidence that it’s not a factor for you, hence my decision to propose this in the first place.”

John looks at Sherlock. He seems so sure of this nonsense plan of his. So confident that he would be able to go through with it. John realizes he doesn’t even need to debate with Sherlock anymore. The fastest and easiest way to end this is to let Sherlock realize that he’s not interested in John that way. Let Sherlock discover for himself why you don’t ask for sex like you’re presenting a new efficient cost/benefit business model to your colleague.

John crosses his arms. “Okay, fine. You’ve convinced me. I’m letting you redeem the coupon for sex.”

Sherlock doesn’t start blinking endlessly like John expected him to. Instead, he looks at John with great scrutiny. “You’re trying to prove a point. You don’t think I will be able to do this,” he concludes, eyes smart and sharp.

John shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, unfolding his arms, “There’s only one way to find out.”

Sherlock only stares, hands steepled together, as is his habit when he’s thinking. 

They need to resolve this now one way or another before they return to Baker Street; Sherlock needs to get this ridiculous idea out of his head. Either he concedes that sex was a piss poor plan all along, or he will try to chicken out soon after.”

“Go on then. If that’s what you really want… if you think your data is solid, come over here and kiss me.”

Sherlock sits up straighter in the chair and braces both hands on the armrest as if he’s preparing to jump out of an aeroplane. “Fine,” he says, but doesn’t move.

It seems this charade is finally over and John resists the urge to tease Sherlock about it. 

But John says nothing and just waits. The thing is, John _does_ care a hell of a lot about his best friend, and by some complicated logic John is quite touched that Sherlock would contemplate going this far out of his comfort zone just to keep John at his side.

Time stands still. The only thing that seems to be moving is the slow, pink flush creeping up Sherlock’s throat.

“John,” he says. “You’ve correctly deduced—not that it was that difficult—that I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even kissed anyone, except for a case.”

There’s a note of sincerity in Sherlock’s voice that goes straight through John’s heart and pulls hard, making his sternum feel tight.

But what the hell is John supposed to do? Help Sherlock follow through?

“The ball’s in your court, Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock looks down at his feet for a few moments. “So I’ve been told,” he says, quietly. 

Another small eternity goes by and finally Sherlock stands and approaches John slowly. He looks like a spooked animal that has decided to be brave and accept food from the outstretched hand of a human. His eyes are alert and his movements are guarded, yet determined.

John’s seen Sherlock give a very convincing performance with Jeanine. It sure seemed a lot less painful than the way he’s doing it now. 

Sherlock swallows. “I might need some assistance,” Sherlock continues, as he stands in front of John. “And I’ve always been able to count on you.”

There’s something in the way Sherlock says this that is very touching and now John feels like shit for making Sherlock do this.

Sherlock licks his lips and leans in ever so slightly towards John until John can smell the pleasant odour of his shampoo and after-shave. John feels his heart beating out of his chest wildly in perfect rhythm with the words dancing around his head _Don’t do it, do it, don’t do it, do it…._

And for the life of him, John has no idea where the _Do it_ comes from but it’s there all the same—pulsing, insistent, and daring. 

Sherlock approaches, his face closer and closer to John’s. And he then stops, hovering just above him. John holds his breath, looking directly at Sherlock’s unique face. 

Sherlock is concentrating so hard—like kissing is a complicated physics problem and the right tangent needs to be calculated before proceeding. 

Yet, there’s something more than just nervousness in his eyes, there is also a hint of earnestness and… anticipation? Good Lord, does Sherlock seriously want to kiss him?

Tension tugs and pulls in the air between them.

_Do it._

It’s difficult for John to remain still. Sherlock seems paralyzed and there is a very instinctual need for John to help him. He really wants to make this easier for Sherlock, knowing full well that it would defeat the purpose.

The more Sherlock stands there looking vulnerable the more John wants to go to him, wants to wrap his arms around him, hug him, tell him it’s all good. (Isn’t that what he did at his own bloody wedding?) 

And the worst part in this? Is that John wants this kiss. Wants his best friend’s lips on his. Wants to be the first person Sherlock ever kisses for real. Sherlock’s data was right all along, wasn’t it? On some deep unconscious level, John must be attracted to more than the danger his best friend provides. 

In fact, they’re both right. John wants this and Sherlock doesn’t. _How goddamn funny!_

John laughs then, a short bark. Sherlock freezes in surprise, blinking his incredible grey-green eyes at him, his mouth so damn close John could kiss him without half trying.

But John thinks of Jeanine. Thinks of Sherlock going as far as proposing to Jeanine. 

_No let him. Let him see this is madness._

“John, I am proceeding,” he announces, as if he doesn’t want to catch John by surprise.

John inhales long and soft as Sherlock strokes John’s neck with his fingertips. There is a certain reverence to his touch that makes John’s heart swell in a strange combination of affection and confusion, as if Sherlock’s fingertips are trying to tell him that this is much more than a simple risk analysis. 

Sherlock lets his hand drop. Surely he’s going to back out now. 

But no. He plants his arms on the bed on each side of John and leans in to press a kiss on John’s cheek and then hides against John’s throat. 

“ _Please_ John,” he whispers.

John doesn’t move, doesn’t react and waits it out. It’s important that Sherlock realizes that _Sherlock_ doesn’t want this. In fact it’s paramount so it doesn’t ever occur again.

Sherlock pulls away and lifts his head. “You really don’t want to,” he says, surprised as if it’s the first time his data has ever let him down. “Am I really so repulsive to you?”

_Repulsive?_

John knows Sherlock is using the word repulsive in a scientific sense—to mean the opposite of attracted… just like in his damn study, but still, it does something to John. _No, you’re not repulsive at all, Sherlock._

John runs a frantic hand through his hair. _Don’t let me reach for him._

John sees him starting to falter; Sherlock is going to change his mind and things will eventually go back to normal between them, this strange episode will get swept under the carpet and forgotten.

But John doesn’t really want normal, does he?

_Aw, fuck it!_

“Come here, you stupid idiot,” John says, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and pulling him down onto the bed next to him. He dips down and kisses Sherlock firmly on the lips. “Is this really what you want?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, blinking in surprise. 

“Alright.” _Your way Sherlock_ , John thinks as he guides Sherlock down on the mattress, moving fully over him in order to kiss him again. _Always your way._

This time John really kisses Sherlock. He wraps his hands around the back of Sherlock’s head and brings his face right up to his. “This is how you do it,” John says, angling his mouth on Sherlock’s and pushing their lips together in quiet determination. Sherlock’s arms move around John’s back and he opens his mouth wide as he moans the softest _John_ ever. Their tongues meet and swirl and glide around each other. It’s like the waltzing lessons—intimate and sweet—but this time it’s John who’s leading.

John has always immersed himself in Sherlock’s brilliant-dangerous-outrageous personality, has fed off the endorphins provided by awe and danger, but now that desire has been added to the mix, he’s drowning in the delicious maelstrom offered to him.

He kisses Sherlock deeply as if it’s the only way to show Sherlock he wants to be with him forever too. That he wants them to be together in every possible way. 

John’s pulse is beating strong and loud in his throat, pounding rhythmically in his lower gut, sending delicious pulses of heat to his groin. But he doesn’t want things to move too fast so he pulls himself off Sherlock and leans on one arm to look at Sherlock’s beautiful face to make sure he’s okay.

John swallows. “How do you feel?”

“I still want to, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes, but do you like it?” John wants to know.

Sherlock takes John’s hand and leads it to his neck where his pulse is beating fast and warm. “I like it,” he whispers. He takes John’s hand again, but this time he moves it lower, and places it over his thumping heart. “Obviously,” he adds. 

John breathes in, and covers Sherlock with his body again. “I like it too,” he murmurs in Sherlock’s ear.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, John” says Sherlock. “Can we continue now?”

John laughs in Sherlock’s neck. “You’re such an arrogant know-it-all.”

“That’s what you like.”

“Hmm, I’d better make sure.”

John lifts Sherlock’s chin and kisses him very lightly on the nose. He does it again to one side of Sherlock’s glorious mouth… and then the other side… then on his chin… and then finally on his throat. There, John’s lips linger, tasting and sucking Sherlock’s skin where it is thin and soft. Something warm and potent spreads inside John. _I had no idea we could be together like this, Sherlock. No fucking clue. You taste so good, you smell so good, I could do this to you forever._

But it seems Sherlock doesn’t quite agree. He links his arms around John’s head and pulls John off his neck , “John, I might not have a lot of experience, but I think we can proceed to the next step.”

“Right,” John says, and kisses Sherlock on the mouth before he starts listing the stages of sexual arousal. 

This time the kiss is wet and passionate from the get go. Any doubts that John might’ve had melt in the heat of the kiss. After a while, when they’ve both shown with their mouths just how much they both want this, John moves away from Sherlock.

“C’mon, let’s get this off,” says John, gruffly. He pulls off Sherlock’s t-shirt over his head and then slides Sherlock’s pajama bottoms down.

Suddenly John is filled with a heady feeling of being invited to a rare, exclusive event. John has been privy to the workings of Sherlock’s brilliant mind. Has been welcomed in to the point that Sherlock talks to him even when he’s not around. And now, he has access to his amazing body as well. 

It’s not the first time that John’s noticed Sherlock’s perfect body. Didn’t he even compare him to Michelangelo’s David? But it’s the first time John’s ever been with a man. John’s fingers trail down Sherlock’s hips and he finds that he is more concerned with making Sherlock feel safe and good than he is with the fact that he is about to touch another man’s body intimately.

_Who would’ve thought?_

John feels Sherlock’s hands tugging at the back of his shirt, trying to pull it out of his trousers, all the while keeping his mouth on John’s. He is so determined to do both at the same time. To show John that, he too, wants this. That it was his idea. 

John takes a deep breath and forces himself to slow the hell down. He needs to make this good for Sherlock. 

He pushes himself up on one arm again and looks at Sherlock, naked and lying deep in the white duvet, his hair spread around his head like an halo. He can’t go as far as comparing Sherlock to an angel—but it’s pretty damn close. And John is filled with something so strong, so powerful that he wonders how he managed to spend the night in Sherlock’s bed two weeks ago without kissing him.

“John, what’s wrong?” asks Sherlock, frowning at the lack of contact. “Did I do—” 

“No, it’s fine. It’s great. I just wanted to look at you… you’re really something else, Sherlock. Really beautiful…”

Sherlock’s cheeks colour and his eyes blink twice before they drop down to John’s waist. “Can I look at you as well?”

John smiles and nods. He sits back on his knees and removes his shirt quickly and tosses it on the floor. He is oddly pleased when Sherlock pushes John’s hand out of the way to help him undo his belt and pull his trousers off. 

And then they are both naked on the duvet, and when their eyes meet, they look at each other with mutual trust and intensity. The switch from friends to lovers feels very natural and intuitive… just like the switch from stranger to friends on the very first day they met.

“John--”

“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind,” John says, laughing softly, pushing Sherlock’s fringe out of his eyes.

“No—but we only have twenty minutes until dinner is ready,” he says with a tiny smile.

“I’m pretty sure _that’s_ not going to be a problem,” John replies.

Finally, John scoops Sherlock in his arms and kisses him desperately, his hands messing up Sherlock’s hair, his mouth nipping and sucking Sherlock’s glorious lips. Pretty soon, they are both panting and wanting more. John’s hand guides Sherlock’s hips closer and closer until their bodies are aligned and they are bare skin to bare skin, creating delicious friction until they are both erect and craving to be touched.

John reaches between their bodies and takes hold of Sherlock’s cock.

“Oh, God,” inhales Sherlock.

“Good?” 

“Yeah” he whispers. “More?” he adds.

John smiles at the fact that it’s a question. Smiles at the thought of an untouched Sherlock who is uncertain just how much more he wants, just how much more there is. 

John leans back a bit and cradles Sherlock’s face. “As much as you like.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says simply, granting John permission, handing the control over to him. 

John kisses him deeply, their tongues swirling together until John slides down, stamping Sherlock’s body with minute wet kisses all the way down to his navel. John touches Sherlock’s knee and says, “It’ll be easier if you open up a bit.”

Slowly, trustingly, Sherlock opens his legs wider. On instinct, John’s hand sneaks down to cup Sherlock’s balls and massages them gently. He has no clue why he starts there. It’s a very intimate gesture between lovers, and he knows from experience that it feels damn good too. But his reasons are deeper than that—it’s like he wants Sherlock to know he can trust him with everything… including the most sensitive parts of his body. 

“That’s,” Sherlock moans gruffly, “that’s extremely… good,” he exhales.

“I know,” John replies, his own balls tingling with tantalizing static. But John is not worried about his own needs right now. He loves doing this to Sherlock. He loves that Sherlock is so responsive. 

The thin skin of Sherlock’s balls tighten under John’s touch, so he lets go before it becomes too much; he simply goes back to kissing and licking the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. And when he feels Sherlock is ready, John takes Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. 

“John, oh—” Sherlock breathes in. “Christ,” he breathes out.

It is an odd experience for John, but he finds the feel of Sherlock’s sleek skin under his tongue to be utterly erotic in its novelty. He loves the fact that Sherlock’s cock seems to be humming under John’s touch. And he loves the sounds Sherlock makes, all strangled and raw, and so unbelievably sexy. John moves his mouth lower, his tongue reaching muskier, sexier places, until Sherlock starts producing deeper sounds that make John’s skin pulse with need.

Sherlock pushes into the bed with his feet, his hands grasping the sheets. “ _No, yess, nooo,_ ” he begs, like he doesn’t know what he wants. 

But John knows. “Shhh,” he says, and then moves back up to capture Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, scraping his teeth along the shaft. “I’m going to use my hand now,” he says as if he wants Sherlock to know what to expect.

John makes a tight fist around Sherlock’s cock and jerks him off with his hand. Sherlock is gorgeous with his lips parted, his head thrown back, completely lost to sensation, and John only needs to pump his hand a few times, sliding his thumb over the sleek head, and then Sherlock is coming on his hand.

John gathers Sherlock to him, malleable and spent and warm and _his_. And he kisses him on the lips, nipping and sucking until Sherlock’s breathing returns to normal.  
But too soon, Sherlock pushes himself up and looks at John, his cheeks very pink, his lips swollen deep red from all their kissing.

“John, let me,” he says, pointing in the general direction of John’s crotch.

John sees that Sherlock wants to show him it is mutual, that this thing they’ve started is not one-sided at all. John nods, letting Sherlock do whatever he wants with him.

Sherlock crawls between John’s thighs and wraps his arms around John’s waist tightly, as if he wants to hug him. He cradles his head in John’s belly and murmurs something—a strange sound, maybe it’s a different language—but whatever it is, it needs no translation. “Me too, Sherlock,” John says, holding Sherlock close to him.

Then Sherlock pulls away again, dips his tongue in John’s navel, and sits back on his heels, looking at John. “You are devastatingly handsome,” Sherlock says, with so much sincerity that John’s heart seems to do a backbeat in dismay. No one’s ever said anything remotely like that to John before and he feels the warmth of a blush crawl right up his face.

Sherlock bends down again, and proceeds to kiss John all the way down his torso just like John did to Sherlock. When he gets to his crotch, Sherlock sucks briefly on the soft skin inside John’s thigh. 

John’s feels the delicious tension mount in his balls and spread outward to his cock, filling his lower gut with warm, pulsing need.

And then Sherlock takes hold of John’s cock and guides it into his mouth, his eyes fixed on John’s. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John moans, and it doesn’t matter if Sherlock nips John with his teeth a bit, it is by far the most striking thing he’s ever experienced. John finds he needs to close his own eyes because to look at Sherlock like this—so eager, so humanly sexual—is too much right now. 

Sherlock sucks him off, the smooth pressure of his mouth exquisite as he slowly drags John’s cock through his gorgeous lips. 

John tries to pull away, his breathing fast, and his ears pounding with the sound of rushing blood, and he knows he is very close. But Sherlock doesn’t release him and John is powerless to stop his orgasm from pulsing through him in warm, satisfying spurts on the edge of Sherlock’s surprised lips.

The sight of a disheveled Sherlock, gracefully wiping his chin clean with long elegant fingers, looking at John with a potent mixture of fierce pride and coyness, is enough for John do _whatever_ the hell it takes to make it all happen again. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, where did you learn to do that? You couldn’t even kiss me earlier.”

Sherlock simply smiles and John pulls him down and covers both of them with the duvet. They turn on their sides and Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist, pushing a knee between his legs until he is seemingly anchored to John’s back.

“John?” whispers Sherlock, his voice warm and soft in John’s nape.

“Hmmm?”

“You are much more attracted to me than my data predicted,” Sherlock says, a note of dismay evident in his voice.

John chuckles quietly, pulling Sherlock’s musky palm to his mouth for a kiss. “Maybe there’s much more than attraction at play here.”

John feels a bunch of little kisses tickle his neck and then cascade down to his shoulder. “Yes, probably more.”

 

~~~****~~~

 

And later, much later, after a nearly burnt birthday dinner is eaten and a quick walk in the freshly fallen snow results in a multitude of kisses on red cheeks and red noses, John learns, while straddled on his back in the snow by Sherlock, that it is possible to see someone’s face everyday and not realize until that moment that you’ve been looking at the love of your life all along.

Sherlock learns, hovering above a flushed John in the snow, that it is possible to call love a mistake and not realize until that moment that it is in fact a miracle. 

Together, back inside the house, they learn that two slick bodies can convey the depths of regret and forgiveness. And it isn’t until the faint light of the cold winter morning enters the room, John cradled inside Sherlock’s arms, that they also learn about the strange alchemy of love admission and its power to transform two friends into a family. 

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting.:D
> 
> I wrote this story as a pinch-hit for kinkajou, as part of the 2015 Holmestice Gift Exchange and I ran out of time at the end. I plan on writing an epilogue at some point in the future
> 
> On a final note, I'd like to wish everyone a safe and happy holiday!
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. If you're looking for more Christmas themed Johnlock stories, I just wrote a new one in December 2016. It's called [Chances Are](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8842777/chapters/20277250). :D


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